


Whispers from the Past

by Toshi_Nama



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Campfire confessions, Ex-lover's ghost, First Kiss, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-07
Updated: 2020-09-07
Packaged: 2021-03-06 14:41:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26190562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Toshi_Nama/pseuds/Toshi_Nama
Summary: Zevran took a contract to kill someone and the only reason that was unusual was because of who, exactly, he wanted to kill. In either case, one of them would not make it away from the ambush.Both survived. Somehow. Zevran kept asking himself how, until his former lover started answering. Then things got complicated.This was a lovely chance to write a fascinating pairing for Hurdlelocker through the BE rare pair exchange! Please check out the other Emporium works! Many thanks to Iodah and Wintertree for their beta assistance - any mistakes are because I ignored their advice!
Relationships: Zevran Arainai/Male Aeducan
Comments: 12
Kudos: 11
Collections: Black Emporium 2020





	Whispers from the Past

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hurdlelocker](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hurdlelocker/gifts).



Zevran stared as the dwarf rushed forward on short but effective legs. “Stop!”

The dwarf, Aeducan by name, failed to do so. Utterly. His four-legged friend joined him, and then Zevran was reminded that others were also here. A blast of ice withered his soul as the witch pulled on the Fade and sent it whirling past him at their adversaries. One fell, screaming, as another became some kind of frozen sculpture just in time for the dwarf to bowl it over and shatter it. Despite the immediate success, Zevran knew what was to come. He could see the edges of the trap closing in as an archer drew aim.

 _It would be easy,_ a voice from his past whispered jovially in his ear. _Zevran, you don’t want to do this. Come back._ He had to admit, it _would_ be easy. He’d considered what his former lover’s voice whispered in his mind more than once since he’d woken up at the mercy of his targets. It was the wise thing to do, despite what the once-prince and apparently-prince seemed to believe. The dwarf had listened, and had nodded, and said bygones were bygones – but were they really? How _could_ a man, even from Orzammar, forgive an attempt on his life for coin?

In Antiva, there would be no forgiveness. The way to end a contract was to kill the assassin. Even the urchins of the streets and bridges knew this.

_Then why did you ask for mercy, if not to take another chance?_

Zevran swore at Taliesen in Antivan and dove into a cloud of alchemical smoke before darting behind the available cover and reappearing at the archer’s back. The bowstring vibrated against the man’s ear with the tension. “A mistake,” Zevran said silkily as the man started, “but the last you’ll make.”

His blade whispered in and out, taking with it only dampness. That was one. Unfortunately, there were many more. Torn between the past and the man in the center of Death’s whirlwind, he spun along the edge of the battlefield, ceding the rest to those with more brawn than he. Let it be up to the Maker, he told himself, but it would be a fair fight. Another archer fell, her cut bowstring replaced with a sword for three exchanges before she was gutted. Then his next target dropped to his knees screaming at visions only he could see, leaving the bandit mage open.

From his right, the dwarf he’d agreed to serve made an unpleasant sound somewhere between a scream and a shout. Ignoring the mage’s companion, Zevran went straight for him - he was the one who was most dangerous, and quickest to subdue. That was unwise, as a giant hammer crashed down upon his shoulder and sent flashes of white through his vision. He fumbled at his belt and threw the first vial he grasped at the woman in front of him, then dove out of the way. More pain shrieked through a body far too used to it, and the white turned to red that he fought to blink away. It was still less than the shrieks the mage was making, but he didn’t pause. If whatever he’d tossed was not enough to kill her, he _had_ to get out of range or he would die.

_Isn’t that what you really wanted, Zevran, or is it just what you convinced yourself you wanted? You didn’t hesitate to use your charm to save yourself, after all._

The dialogue with a man weeks and a Sea away needed to wait until after the fight. Again he shook off the voice only to see the Qunari trading blows with someone even shorter than he himself. The dwarf, bleeding from several places, was losing ground. How not? The dance between he and the giant looked remarkably like a craftsman hammering a nail into a plank of wood.

 _Focus._ It was too early to see if his shoulder was dislocated or broken, but how many knives did he need to find a gap in the armor of a man’s back? Without letting himself think, Zevran leapt into action again.

_You’re so impulsive, Zevran._

“Impulsive? You have not seen this man,” he muttered in response.

Blue eyes looked up at him. “Huh?”

Well, if he was going to have a conversation with a man not present, at least he had the sense to do it in Antivan.

Another voice broke in, his accent a dusty, runic thing compared to the Antivan in his mind. “You don’t look so good.”

“Neither do you, my Warden,” he gasped out as the world spun.

**  
  
Zevran watched the man petting the brute of a mabari, whispering softly in his ear as Wynne patched him up. The attack had almost done them in – the band was larger than it had appeared. It should not have been so close. They should not have been so surprised, not after knowing the Teyrn was willing to do anything to wrap up loose ends.

_Ah, you would know all about loose ends, wouldn’t you, Zevran?_

“Braska!” White-hot agony shot through him, catching him by surprise. 

The cause of said agony scoffed at him. “And here I thought you an experienced adventurer, capable of most remarkable things. To jump and swear over this? ‘Tis but a dislocated shoulder, which is now repaired.” The witch’s honey-velvet voice was as barbed as ever – something he rather admired, on days it was not targeted at him.

“Yes, well. There were other matters to consider.”

“Yes, I am sure.”

Thankfully, Morrigan moved on. She might have been abrasive, but as he shifted his shoulder, he nodded. It was no worse and some better than he would have managed on his own, and meant he didn’t need to listen to Wynne’s platitudes. The sudden solitude left him to watch again the most curious sight of a dwarf nearly a foot shorter than him – one built very like the creature he was fussing over – crooning. Guilt rose again, but now he could do more than sit and wait like a fool. 

Careful for his right shoulder, Zevran pushed himself to his feet and stalked into the dark forest. He could always claim he was checking for signs of their ambushers, even if it wasn’t as true as he might like.

This was a way out of the Crows, nothing more. He needed to remember that, even if he was still uncertain why he tried to talk the dwarf out of killing him. _That_ would have been an even more certain way out of the Crows. A permanent solution. He had not taken it, and had steadfastly refused to consider why not, even as he focused on finding out more about the Warden Kamen Aeducan.

It had been habit, he told himself. A Crow never stopped being a Crow, and that meant finding out everything he could about his target. The Aeducans were princes and kings of Orzammar, and dwarves were not known for their humility or comfort above ground.

“Ah, braska,” he muttered to himself. He hadn’t discovered impressive fighting techniques or the arrogance he had looked for. Instead, the man might be the most easy-going he had encountered, utterly oblivious to his advantages and station in life. He was _also_ oblivious to the risks of believing good things about people. What a situation. His target, a famed and dangerous Grey Warden, had walked wide-eyed right into his rather pathetic trap. Sylvie had rolled her eyes as she nodded at him, just before his supposed plan had failed and his actual plan...also failed. One of two people were supposed to have died that day, and he, a trained assassin, had managed to kill neither of them.

“You’re going to walk into a tree,” said a voice that startled him from his musings. “Wouldn’t that be embarrassing?”

“No more embarrassing than failing to spot an ambush,” Zevran retorted.

The very dwarf he was thinking on had snuck up on him, clanking his way to his side. “We all have bad days.”

“This is what I trained for! Besides, Warden, if anyone is to kill you, it should be myself.”

Kamen laughed. “You still want to kill me?”

He bit his tongue before an answer could come out. _Which_ answer, he was no longer certain. He was also not certain he liked that the Warden had become not just Aeducan, but _Kamen._ He ought to keep his distance. “Let us call it a matter of professionalism, shall we?”

Yes, that was much better than letting his gaze linger. Zevran closed his eyes, but could feel his companion’s making their own inspection of him – and not a suspicious one, either. Nonsense. He would convince himself of that. The man hadn’t responded to the instinctive flirting his instructors had beaten into him.

That was a good thing.

“If you want,” came a quiet reply.

Zevran opened his eyes to watch the dwarf returning to camp and exchange a word with the other Warden, Alistair. They joked easily, comfortably, and their smiles held no artifice.

 _You know better than_ that, _Zevran. We are Crows, not boys playing at being heroes._

He made his way back to his own tent, trying to not remember how that smile had looked no different when directed at him. “Ah, Taliesen, it is easier to ignore you when you are in front of me.”

The only thing harder than ignoring his former lover’s voice was ignoring the eyes that followed his movements – eyes that had a wistfulness to them he couldn’t pretend was imagined. How was it that the gentleness in his life came from a man dedicated to battle? The genuine caring came from a prince raised in the halls of duplicity?

Better to sleep, and wonder later when he had decided that _this_ contract was not going to die.

**

The ‘why’ ceased to matter the next morning, with a much softer smile than he had expected. “Your arm’s better, right?”

“Of course!” What other answer would suffice? “I am ready and willing to guard your back, my Warden.”

That soft glimmer didn’t turn to humor the way it was supposed to. “You don’t have to say that, you know. It’s not why I…”

He should stand. Standing put him high enough he could pretend that wasn’t what Kamen…Aeducan…no, the Warden was meaning.

_You’ve always been good at lying to yourself, haven’t you, Zevran? We’re taught to do that. But you never went to Ferelden to kill the Warden standing in front of you._

Oh, in that the Taliesen in his head was entirely correct, but it didn’t change the fact that Zevran did not like getting called out, even by a part of his own mind. He pushed to stand, in his haste forgetting about his injured shoulder and its rather hasty return to its socket last night. He hissed in pain and stayed on the low log.

It meant that he needed to look up at the dwarf – an uncomfortable place to be. “Well, yes, there are other things I would prefer to be doing, but –“

His words were interrupted when Kamen came close. Far too close. Close enough to smell the leftover stew Zevran himself had shepherded through the night just so the first to rise would have something to eat before someone else bothered with the glue these Fereldans called porridge. _He_ wasn’t supposed to take the lead, no. That was supposed to be Zevran the bold, Zevran the certain.

A remarkably warm and dry forehead pressed against his for a moment, and he had nothing to do but close his eyes and breathe. Yes, that was important, because otherwise it would be far too easy to tip his face up. Perhaps he should. The man’s lips were not far from his own; then he would be the one acting, the one in control.

Their noses brushed, and he made the foolish decision to open his mouth. “It is now you seducing me?”

The warmth receded. That was what he’d wanted a moment ago, but now the damp coolness of the morning sank into his bones. It was an uncomfortable feeling. Yes. That was what was uncomfortable, the sudden absence of warmth. But not _that_ warmth.

“No,” came a low-voiced reply. “Just checking up on you.”

Kamen moved before he could call the once-prince on his lie.

_Ah-ah, Zevran, are you really sure you want to discuss lies right now?_

There were no others! It was admiration, nothing more. Very well, he could admit to the face he preferred not to see in his dreams, it was also lust. The dwarf was attractive, and he had always enjoyed a taste of danger. Admiration and lust, he insisted to himself. That was all. Even if it was the touch of the other’s forehead, that moment of sweetness, that had made his pulse race. Danger, nothing more.

“Braska,” he muttered as the smell of boiling grain assaulted his nose. Well, he now had an excuse to try to get up. Again.


End file.
